


things are perfect, i swear

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [141]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, The Tenderness Of Referring To Your Beloved By Their First Name In Shortened Form, mostly pretty soft though, some discussion on the effect of newt being possessed for ten years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann's the one who shows Newt to his new flat.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [141]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Kudos: 30





	things are perfect, i swear

**Author's Note:**

> [@drsarah1281](https://drsarah1281.tumblr.com/) asked: "At first I was angry you had fallen in love with someone else but you seem so happy now. I didn't even know you were sad."

He doesn’t see; doesn’t, see, _look,_ because, perhaps, he doesn’t _want_ to.

It’s just—Newton looks so _happy._ Seems so happy. Hermann doesn’t want to push too hard—Newton _deserves_ this; deserves to be happy. It’s the _least_ he deserves, truly, for his years of service to humanity—contentment; peace.

Alice certainly seems to bring that to him. _Seemed._

In retrospect, there were signs; Hermann just ignored what he didn’t want to see.

So now, ten years later, Newton Geiszler is currently trying to kill all of humanity—well; correction; the _Precursors_ are using a possessed Newton to try and restart their colonisation efforts; the red of the opened Breaches casting a rusty, blood-red light onto the biologist’s skin and shining into Hermann’s eyes painfully.

The fact that _this_ is what he considers to the _painful_ thing when Newton’s hands are literally wrapped around his throat says something about him. More accurately, it says, in the voice of the copy of Newton Geiszler from 2025 that has resided in his head for the past decade, _Dude,_ priorities??

“N—newton,” he finally chokes, the name barely making it past his lips, and his fingers scrabble against the other’s; trying, desperately, to get _through_ to him.

He realises, suddenly, with it—his vision blackening with the loss of oxygen around the edges—, that he has never said his _name,_ not in true. Not once in the twenty-two years they’ve known each other. Never once.

His throat works, and he rasps, “ _Newt,_ ” barely above a whisper; an offering; an apology. _If nothing else, know this. If nothing else, remember_ this.

A beat, and his vision is mostly dark, but he sees, at its epicentre, Newton’s stricken expression. “Hermann, th—they’re in my _head,_ ” he says, half-frantic and terrified, and his voice is small, and high, and _human._

Shao’s gun goes off and he drops Hermann to the floor.

* * *

And so; here they are.

“If I ever have to get another IV, it’ll be too soon,” Newton grumbles, rubbing the crook of his arm, the spot where the IV was inserted covered with a white bandage. It’s the third one they’ve put on—Newton keeps absent-mindedly picking them off, and then beginning to apologise to Hermann, who just sighs and pulls another one out of his pockets.

Hermann hums. “Quite,” he agrees, because _he_ may not have been the one who went through it, but he imagines it’s rather unpleasant. His fingers tighten on the steering-wheel at the memory of a pale, barely-breathing Newton laying prone on a medical cot, hooked up to an IV.

Newton’s speaking still, he thinks, but nothing that makes sense; exhaustion coating the words, but he doesn’t stop, and Hermann realises, with a jolt, that, perhaps, this is the first time in a decade that he has gotten to say exactly what he wants to.

No wonder he doesn’t want to stop; wants to savour this as long as he can.

“Oh, Newt,” he murmurs, reaching out with one hand to hold the other’s. “It’s alright. This isn’t a dream. You can go to sleep.”

The words seem to comfort him, because his fevered muttering quiets and then trails off, his head listing slightly, chest rising shallowly with sleep, and warmth blooms beneath Hermann’s skin at the sight of it.

He wishes he knew how to apologise; to tell Newton that this is, in parts, his fault. _At first I was angry you had fallen in love with someone else but you seem so happy now,_ he remembers thinking; years ago, when the memory of Newton in his mind was fresh still, feeling hurt at his leaving but reminding himself that Newton can do whatever he pleases. Now it’s joined by another: _I didn’t even know you were sad._

“I should have,” he murmurs, barely more than a whisper. “I knew you best—I should have known.”

He sighs; draws his hand away, places it back on the steering wheel. Regret is useless, now—it’ll change nothing. The best he can do is live in the present and try and make up for the past.

Now, that means getting Newton back to the flat the PPDC has, reluctantly, arranged for him to stay in.

It’s not bad; a bit small, perhaps, and sterile, but Hermann is sure the other will fix that soon—and if he doesn’t, _cannot_ do it himself, Hermann will be there for him; will unpack the boxes of posters and tack them to the walls and help him put the bright yellow and purple polka-dot sheets on his bed.

He brings the car to a stop, and Newton stirs. “We there already?”

“Yes,” Hermann says, “er—here; the, ah, key—” he pulls it out of his pocket and offers it to the other.

Newton stares at it, and then, at length, says, “Thanks,” and takes it.

His possessions, in brown boxes, have already been brought in by movers, so they simply open and begin to unpack them. Partway through, Newton stops. “I think I’m going to get a septum piercing,” he says, without preamble, holding a black and orange shirt in one hand and a ceramic shoe in the other.

Hermann raises a brow at him. “Can I ask _why?_ ” he says, “not that I’m saying you _shouldn’t,_ mind. Erm—if you feel like you want to tell me, that is.”

“Nah, ’s fine,” Newton says, and there’s the faintest traces of a smile that Hermann hasn’t seen in years playing at his lips. “Uh—honestly, I think I…need it, sort of. To, um, prove that…” he trails off.

Hermann swallows. “That you have control,” he finishes, quietly.

Newton nods. “Yeah,” he says, with a high burst of laughter ripping from his lungs before he cuts it off. “I mean, I know it’s silly, but—”

“It’s not,” Hermann says. “It's—it’s _not,_ Newton. _Newt._ I…I understand.”

“…oh,” Newton says; and then, “you called me Newt.”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “ _That’s_ what you choose to focus on?” he says, but it’s fond, and now Newton _is_ smiling in true; the action looking half-forgotten, but it’s genuine.

“Hey,” Newton says, and reaches out to take his hand. “Thanks.”

For what, Hermann doesn’t know; understanding? Being here with him? Both? Maybe it doesn’t matter, in the end, really; maybe neither of them really know. Perhaps all that matters is the weight of Newton’s hand in his as they stand here, smiling at each other tentatively.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
